


To Take The Purple, A Gift Of Crimson

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Faking Recovery So Others Will Stop Worrying About You, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 17:43:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Laslow will not abide this loss occuring.





	To Take The Purple, A Gift Of Crimson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalloway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalloway/gifts).

Laslow was not taking no for an answer.

It didn't matter that just the hour past he'd been reeling from his own injuries; they were minor -- he insisted as much and Elise's worried glances be damned -- and inconsequential and _none of it mattered_ the way Xander mattered. _He_ didn't matter. What could it possibly matter if he survived that bastardly strike if Xander perished?

"I'll be fine, milord, always.

"Can't say the same for the _wretch_."

But that didn't matter, either. What mattered was Xander, limp and bone-pale on the heavy swan-down coverlets as if already laid out in state, a living ghost in ivory and pale linen against violet and sable. Laslow could see those wounds despite all that was done, burned into his vision now and forever, a hint of blackened crimson even now that could not be erased. And Laslow would not, would _not_ allow the bastard to win in the end. 

Not when Xander would -- he _would_ \-- soon reclaim that thorned throne and -- 

\-- the gods be willing (Naga grant the wish of your wanderer) -- 

\-- accept the gift of that murderous heart from Laslow's own hands.

It was time, it was now or never, and Laslow was prepared. Whatever it took, whatever he could give, it belonged to his lord; now and forever, and he did not regret a moment.

"After all we've seen and fought together, after everything we've _won_, don't think I'll leave you now."

The words that tumbled from his throat -- low, raw, heated -- came in time with his removal of doublet, with tearing one sleeve rather than waste the time rolling it out of the way, with testing the edge of the blade he carried with him always. The tiniest of whispers and that blade drew a thin red line; and Laslow heard the faint, faint sound in Xander's throat, weak and denying what the newer tang in the air promised.

Laslow was not taking no for an answer.

What did the bastard _say_ to him …?

"Prove them _wrong_. 

"Please."

A hiss of steel through the air, a swift incision across bare flesh; Laslow was well practiced in the offering, the dagger set aside and dagger-hand cradling the back of Xander's head, lifting him, before more than the first upwelling of crimson began to trail down his free hand. Another tiny cry registered as Laslow slipped smooth as an ermine's pelt up onto the bed, Xander now cradled, rivulets of scarlet running freely now. 

The first drops touched Xander and he flinched, throat tightening. No; Laslow closed his hand, trailed fingertips across his own palm, touched bloodied fingers to too-dry lips. 

"… please."

The flicker of the hour-candle mocked him in the stillness. A heartbeat, another, and a chill danced across bare and bleeding flesh.

… a flutter of motion, light as moth's wings, against his touch as his blood pooled across Xander's jaw, traced down the hollow milky throat. Another.

Another.

Jaw set against the swimming of his vision, Laslow lifted Xander closer still and brought the freely flowing vein to bear, stretching stained fingers to cradle a colourless face, to leave bloodied petals behind as he stroked Xander's cheek slowly.

And no need did he pay to voices, so faint, from the heavy doorway ...


End file.
